Wedding Night
by Thistlerose
Summary: Taran is perfectly willing to be romantic, if only Eilonwy will let him get a word in edgewise. Set immediately after "The High King."


Eilonwy lay on her side, her cheek cupped in her hand, the _Book of Three_ open in front of her. It was chilly in the farmhouse, she she'd thrown a fur-lined cloak across her shoulders. The late afternoon sunlight slanting through the window filled her red-gold hair with sparks that leaped each time she turned the page or bent closer to peer at Dallben's scrawl.

It was a full five minutes before she realized that Taran was watching her from the doorway. She blushed when she looked up at him, then smiled. "Has Smoit gone?"

"Yes," said Taran, lowering himself to the floor beside her. He leaned back on his elbows and stretched his legs out in front of him. The cold flagstones nipped at him through his trousers, but if she could stand it, he could. "Finally. He asked me again if we wouldn't rather journey to Caer Cadarn with him. There'd be a feast in our honor, he said."

"There'll be a feast whether we're there or not," Eilonwy remarked. "You _will_ have to go to one at some point, whether it's at Caer Cadarn or I don't know where else. It's just something that kings do."

Taran looked at her helplessly. "Eilonwy, I after Smoit and his men left, I went to Hen Wen's enclosure and fed her and the piglets. I fed _pigs_. Is that something kings do?"

Eilonwy considered him thoughtfully. "Probably not. But then, it's important – at least, to Hen and her piglets – and I doubt there are many kings who can say the same about the things _they_ do. Well, I'm sure they _say_ that the things they do are important, but really, they're not. Why didn't you accept Smoit's invitation?"

He was bemused for a moment; he'd thought they'd gotten past Smoit. "Well…there are things to be done here in Caer Dallben."

"Such as?"

"I don't know. It's not like I've ever been king before. There's Hen Wen to tend to, still. I suppose we've got to pack, though I've no idea where we're supposed to go, Caer Dathyl being ruined and all."

"Yes. And?"

"And?" Her eyes were shadowed by her lashes, making her expression difficult to read, but Taran caught the eager note in her voice.

"And," Eilonwy prompted.

"Well, I ought to do something about the garden," said Taran. "I promised Coll…" He was toying with her now and rather enjoying himself because it was so seldom that he was able to get the upper hand. "I suppose I ought to write letters to all the other kings and lords in Prydain. Though perhaps you'd better do that; I'm sure you're better at that sort of thing than I am. Of course, I've no messengers yet, so I'm not sure how I'll even send the letters."

"Messengers," huffed Eilonwy. "Letters." She closed the _Book of Three_ and got to her knees. The cloak fell away as she tossed her hair. "Vegetables! Taran of Caer Dallben, I'm not—"

He laid a finger against her lips, quieting her. "In truth," he said, "I wanted to spend time with you."

He felt her lips close and then spread in a smile. "Well, then."

She leaned forward. Her hair swung down, brushing his hand as it moved to her cheek. Their noses bumped, then their mouths met and they were kissing.

There was still some awkwardness. Taran was woefully aware of his callused palms and the dirt under his fingernails as he tried to touch every inch of Eilonwy's exposed skin. She kept fumbling with her hair, which clung to lips and eyelashes, and tangled around fingers. But they were alone for the first time since their wedding that morning, and so they had time to work on it, to shift position, try different angles. By the time the sun fell behind the surrounding trees and the sky turned purple, they had it right.

It was completely dark in the farmhouse when they pulled apart. "Just a minute," Eilonwy whispered and, thinking she was going to look for a candle, Taran slumped against the floor. His lips buzzed pleasantly and he could still taste her breath.

Eilonwy groaned. "I forgot that my bauble doesn't light up anymore. "It's worse than coming home and finding all your things have been sold." She lay beside him and rested her head against his chest. "There's no more magic in Prydain. None that we can use, anyway. We're on our own. Which I suppose was the point of the Children of Don leaving. Still, I can't help wishing…"

Her voice faded, but Taran guessed her thought; more than the magic they'd lost, she missed their friends. Taran did too – keenly. Despite Eilonwy's chatter, Hen Wen's cheerful "Hwoinch!," and King Smoit's boisterous tones, Caer Dallben had seemed quiet all day, as if all the birds and other animals had forgotten that it was spring and flown south again, or gone back to sleep in their dens.

Eilonwy said softly, "I keep expecting Gurgi to come in, looking for crunchings and munchings."

"And Fflewddur," Taran agreed. "With a new song for us, full of heroic deeds."

"Which may or may not have actually happened."

"Yes. And Doli would glower and say, 'Hmph! That's not how it was, you clods.' Good old Doli."

They said the last bit together and laughed, albeit ruefully. When they'd quieted again, Taran began to comb Eilonwy's hair away from her face. Somewhat falteringly, he said, "I do want you to know that I appreciate… I mean that I'm glad, so glad that you chose…because I don't think I could have borne it… Not that I don't miss our friends, but _you_…"

"Taran of Caer Dallben," said Eilonwy, "I do believe you're trying to be romantic."

"I am. Trying, at least."

"Go on. Because really," she continued before he could get a word in, "I haven't had any sort of courtship. And we're married! Though now that I think about it, all the courtships I've witnessed – and believe me, there were a few at Dinas Rhydnant – were dreary affairs. Most of the court ladies never did get what they wanted, but then, not one of them would stoop to actually telling their suitors what was required of them, so, really, it was mostly a matter of luck. I'd never seen so much useless jewelry or heard such dreadful poetry. No, I much prefer all the adventures we went on. I'd rather have a sword in my hand than a bunch of flowers that are just going to wilt, though I suppose I can't make the comparison as you've never given me flowers in all the years we've known each other."

Taran wondered if he was being rebuked. It was hard to tell.

"And I _did_ embroider that banner for you."

"I treasure it," Taran said quickly. "What's left of it, anyway. I'll get you flowers as soon as we have some again, if that's what you'd like. I don't know what Coll planted while I was away. Then you can decide if you prefer swords."

"And if I do," said Eilonwy, "would you get me a bouquet of swords?"

"I'll forge them myself. Hevydd the Smith taught me how."

"That sounds lovely. And – do you know? – I think you're much better at being romantic than those silly suitors at Dinas Rhydnant. It must have to do with having started as an Assistant Pig-Keeper. I don't mean to say that women are like pigs, though I can think of quite a few who are. No, what I mean is, you do have some queer notions at times, but you're not _silly_. You're rather wonderful, in fact. It's like… Well, it's like having magic again. No, not like having magic. More like… Like waking up on the morning of the first snowfall. Like butterflies in the apple blossoms. Though, now that I think about it, I can't recall whether or not butterflies actually—"

"_Eilonwy_," Taran burst out. She paused and he plunged on. "I'll do what you like, say what whatever you like. Flowers, swords, but—" He punctuated each word with a gentle tug at her hair. "You have to let me _speak_. Sometimes, anyway."

"If you don't want me to talk," Eilonwy said a trifle tartly, "you know what to do."

"I do," he said, cradling her head in the crook of his arm and rolling over so that he was on top of her and they were once again nose to nose, then lips to lips. As he kissed her, and as his hands traced her slender curves he wondered for the second time that day if Dallben had not been mistaken about the _Book of Three_'s prophecy. Here in his arms was the whole of his kingdom, and for all the little farmhouse's nooks and crannies were steeped with the echoes of absent friends, there was no sorrow here, only joy.

4.21.07


End file.
